


Under the Influence

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not until the taxi's tail-lights are fading in the distance and he's standing alone in front of McClane's place that he realizes he forgot his damn key.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Influence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt "don't move"
> 
> * * *

Matt likes numbers. Numbers are constant. Numbers don't lie. Numbers don't fuck your brains out and then promise to meet you for lunch the next day and then leave you sitting alone in a seedy café for forty-five minutes. Not that that ever happened to him. Because it totally didn't.

Matt likes numbers, but that doesn't mean he doesn't also like people. He prefers numbers, but he actually has a fairly wide and diverse group of friends, too. He really doesn't just sit in front of a monitor for days on end, living on Cheetos and Red Bull, a fact that pretty much shocked McClane when he first moved in after all the Fire Sale bullshit. 

When his leg finally heals enough that he can venture out into the world, the first thing Matt does is call up some of those friends and arrange a club night. Drinks, loud music, gyrating badly on the dance floor. If he's lucky, he figures maybe he'll be able to swing a quickie in a bathroom stall. Just something casual. Something to take the edge off. The kind of thing that would take his mind off a certain burly bald cop that lounges around the house in an old-school wifebeater that really shouldn’t be sexy but totally is, and how the only thing he can think about practically 24/7 is peeling that shirt slowly off and licking a wide wet swath down that cop's chiseled chest with his tongue. 

Not that that little fantasy plays out over and over in his head, either. 

Much.

Matt makes the arrangements, and his friends meet him at the club, and he looks forward to what will surely be a loud, fun, sweat-soaked night. All goes pretty much according to plan – except for that bathroom stall thing, but everyone at Fly is young and smooth and pretty and they all have way too much hair and he finds that he is so not interested. He still has a good time, even though his knee is screaming at him by the time he hobbles outside when the strobe lights have dimmed and he's downed his last shot. 

It's not until the taxi's tail-lights are fading in the distance and he's standing alone in front of McClane's place that he realizes he forgot his damn key.

* * *

"Don't move, jerkwad!"

Matt freezes, which really takes a lot of talent when the upper half of his body is hovering over the kitchen sink and the bottom half is still dangling over the azalea bushes. The window sill is digging into his hip bone and he huffs out a pained breath, risks looking up through the hair flopping in his eyes to find John standing with legs spread in the middle of the dim kitchen, moonlight spilling through the window and glinting on the gun that is pointed directly at him. 

"Oh, hey. John," he says. He tries for a smile, even though the blood rushing to his head is really not mixing well with all the tequila. "Forgot my key."

For a moment McClane doesn't drop the cop stance, and Matt is opening his mouth to repeat himself, this time slowly and carefully – sometimes the hearing is the first to go on older guys, and he's read enough of John's files to know just how many explosions the dude's been in close proximity to over the length of his career – when John lets out a breath and his hand drops to his side. 

"Jesus Christ," John mutters. 

There's a shuffle of footsteps before Matt has to quickly shut his eyes against the glare of the overhead light. The glare still penetrates through his closed lids and that doesn't do much to help the Jager-inspired swirling in his brain, but then neither does hanging practically upside down in the kitchen window. He blindly flails a hand in what he hopes is John's general direction. "A little help, McClane?"

The arm that circles his waist is strong and muscled and absolutely nothing like those of the little pipsqueaks who hit on him all night at the bar. He wraps his own arm over John's shoulders and clambers out of the window, and when he shivers he can totally blame it on being outside in only a T-shirt in the brisk October air and not on how close he's standing to John, even when his feet are finally firmly on the linoleum. 

"Jesus Christ," John says again. "What the hell were you doing? I nearly blew your brains out, kid."

"Forgot my key," Matt says again. 

"You didn't think about maybe ringing the doorbell like a normal person?"

Matt actually didn't think about ringing the doorbell. He's going to definitely blame that on the Jagermeister. Or possibly the vodka. Maybe the rum. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, because even in his somewhat inebriated state he can tell that now would not be the right time to mention that if John had just let him hide a spare key under the mat he wouldn't have been in this predicament. 

Besides, now that the adrenaline rush of finding himself facing the business end of a gun – again – is past, the alcohol in his system comes roaring back to the surface. He sways a little on his feet, a palm coming up to flatten against John's chest. And okay, John's not wearing a wifebeater tonight, but his T-shirt is snug and soft and worn and touching him is making all kinds of interesting things happen in his nether regions. Matt takes a shuddering breath, tries to take a step back before John can notice that his dick definitely sees the appeal in being up close and personal with John McClane, but the inhalation just brings the scent of John to him. Nothing like the boys at the club with their hair product and their expensive colognes – this is just John, sweat and shaving cream and the faint hint of the cigarette he would have smoked on the back porch. Instead of stepping back, Matt leans forward. 

He shivers again – okay, some of it can maybe be blamed on the weather and his lack of proper attire – and this time John notices. Matt watches from up close as the frown lines furrow John's brow when the man leans closer to rub those big hands over his bare arms. 

"Jesus, kid, you're freezing."

Matt resists the tug of John's arm toward the space heater, curls his fingers in the thin fabric of John's shirt instead. "You can warm me up."

Matt watches John's eyes go wide. "You're drunk."

"Yup," Matt agrees. Part of him – the sane part, the part that's going to wake up tomorrow wondering why he thought mixing every alcohol known to mankind was a good idea – is screaming at him to shut up, to step away, to stumble down the hall and leave John McClane standing in the kitchen. But John's heart is beating rapidly under the press of his palm, and John's big hands are motionless on his biceps, and this close he can smell the scent of the leather jacket McClane had worn outside still clinging to his skin. And all he wants to do is touch. 

Matt tells that sane part of himself to fuck the hell off. 

He leans in and nuzzles his nose beneath John's ear. 

He thought John was still before, but now John goes completely immobile. Except for the quick intake of breath. And the heartbeat that actually stutters for a long endless second before picking up again at double speed. 

John's neck is warm against his nose. Up this close, the smell of the shaving lotion is stronger, and Matt knows that earlier this evening John must have gotten tired of the little grey hairs that grow in all askew over his head and dug out the razor. Just the thought of John sitting shirtless on the edge of the tub and slowly drawing the razor over his scalp is enough to make his dick jump, and he exhales softly, feels the answering shudder when his tongue darts out to lick at the salt of John's skin.

It's not enough, not nearly enough. He lets his fingers trail down the broad planes of John's chest, watches those sea-green eyes blink once, slowly. Watches John's tongue swipe at his lips.

When his fingers snag on the bottom of John's T-shirt – so close to getting the damn thing off and freeing up all of that amazing skin – he feels John's head snap up. 

"Whoa whoa whoa," John says. Strong fingers wrap around his wrists, halting his motion. "What do you think you're doing?"

Matt lets his forehead drop against John's chest, forces himself not to sigh in frustration. The room might be spinning just a tad and granted, his brain cells aren't exactly firing on all cylinders. But he's aware enough to know that this isn't exactly a one-sided seduction. "This is why I like numbers," he mumbles into the soft fabric of John's chest.

"What?" John snaps. 

Matt lifts his head. Shaking the hair out of his eyes is a bad mistake, especially when the room tilts alarmingly for a moment, but he grabs onto John's bicep and that keeps him steady. "I want you," he says. "You want me. It's pretty simple math."

"No," John says.

They are still standing close enough that Matt can feel John's interest pressed thick and meaty against his thigh. He merely looks between them, raises an eyebrow. 

"No, kid," John says firmly. "Not like this."

* * *

Matt comes awake slowly, swimming up from a muddled dream. He carefully opens his eyes, squints at the sunlight streaming through the open window, and slowly takes stock. His head hurts, but not as bad as it could – and certainly not as bad as it did the morning after that night when he was seventeen and he and the Warlock decided to drink everything in the Kaludis liquor cabinet, which is the scale on which he has judged all hangovers since. His mouth feels like sandpaper, but that's nothing that some toothpaste and a gallon of Gatorade won't cure. All in all, he thinks he survived his night out quite well.

Except for the part about how he's lying in bed in only his boxers, and has absolutely no memory of getting undressed.

He swipes a hand through his hair, sorts through the ragged remnants of his memories. He remembers climbing in the window, definitely remembers breathing in the scent of John and his fingers twitching to touch skin. He remembers John turning him down. And then… nothing. 

Matt shrugs, throws his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his jeans. It's not like John hasn't seen him in less than this before. It's a small house, and Matt doesn't usually do much more than sling a towel around his hips when he's making the way to his room after his shower. 

He's seen the way John looks at him on those mornings, too. And he knows exactly what he has to do now. 

He finds John parked in his usual Sunday morning spot, in the worn armchair by the window with the sports page clutched in two beefy fists. 

Matt leans against the doorjamb, waits for John to notice him. The dude's a detective, it's not like he didn't realize exactly when Matt entered the room. But John just licks the tip of his index finger and flips a page, and the longer John doesn't look up the more Matt doubts his haphazard plan. He finally caves, juts his chin toward the window seat. "So," he says. "Hey. Crazy night, huh?"

John glances up over the top of the paper. "For some of us," he answers.

"Hey, don't sell yourself short. I'm sure you had some wild times… watching the game. Go Knicks, right? And hey, you got to exercise your vocabulary. But 'jerkwad', McClane? That was the best you could come up with?"

"Got the point across," John says, lips upturning briefly before turning back to the box scores.

Matt returns it with a hesitant smile of his own, then lingers in the entranceway to the living room. He considers just barging through and heading first for the coffee maker. But something tells him that if he doesn't grab the bull by the horns right now, he'll lose his nerve and the opportunity will be lost forever. If that happens, he might as well admit that his leg is healed enough for him to consider moving out of McClane's place and into an apartment of his own. And if _that_ happens, he'll never see John McClane again.

More than anything, he wants to see John McClane. Wants to see him every morning when he wakes up and every night before he stumbles into bed. 

He decides to resolutely ignore the churning in his gut that has nothing to do with how much he drank the night before. 

"So. Guess I laid all the cards out on the table last night, huh?"

John sighs, looks up from the paper. "Let's not do this."

"See, some people totally black out the events that occurred when they were drinking, right? There's actually been studies done, McClane, trying to determine whether that happens as an actual physical result of the alcohol in the bloodstream or whether it's a psychological response from the brain, you know, filtering out the embarrassing things that your mind thinks you don't have the capacity to deal with. There was an interesting experiment, actually, where they took test subjects and…" Matt shakes his head. Getting sidetracked is so not the way to go here. He takes a halting step into the room, waves a hand in the air. "Not the point," he says. "The point is that I don't do that, John. I remember everything."

"Guess your genius brain can handle shit better than the rest of us," John drawls, his gaze going back to his paper.

"Probably," Matt agrees. The psychologist his parents used to drag him to when he was a kid always used to rail on about his 'narcissistic tendencies', but Matt just believes in being honest. He's smart. Deal. "Anyway. I remember coming on to you. I remember licking your neck."

John squirms in his seat, but doesn't look up. "Jesus, Matt."

"I remember all of it."

John does glance up then, and he's got the bland cop-face perfected to a science. And Matt suddenly knows how all of this is going to play out. He's going to spill his guts, and John's going to stay locked in that shell that he's built up around himself for God knows how many years, and it will end will Matt slinking back to his room in utter mortification. No, it will end with Matt packing up his things and moving to some dive in Camden and never knowing what might have happened if he just had a bigger set of balls. 

Matt shakes his head again. If he's going to end up sad and lonely in the asshole of America, he's going to go out with a bang.

He's across the room in several quick strides, clambering onto John's lap and ignoring the crumple of the paper, the shocked look on John's face before he has time to second-guess his decision. He takes that face in his hands, palms spread wide. "I remember that you said no," he says.

John's arms come up then, fingers encircling his biceps. Matt quickly realizes that this could go south very fast, that John works out and is a goddamn cop who's trained in probably eighty-seven different ways to disengage from a dangerous offender, and if John McClane wants to end this now, he will. But despite those strong hands tightening on his arms, John makes no attempt to physically get rid of him. He just grits his teeth, shakes his head. 

"You said No because I was drunk, and you thought that I'd wake up and freak out or you'd wake up and freak out. Plus you'd think you were taking advantage of me, even though I totally wanted it. Wanted you."

"Get the hell off me," John says. 

"Except that I still want you. Fuck, John, I've wanted you ever since you blasted Creedence in my ears in the middle of a goddamn traffic jam. Ever since you threw that car and walked away from it covered in blood and grime and thought that it made you look sexy, which it totally did. Ever since—"

"It's goddamn hero worship, kid! It don't mean shit!"

Matt shakes his head, moves his hands to rest on John's shoulders. "And maybe I'm wrong, but I think you want me, too. I've seen the way you look at me."

"I don't! You're just--"

"And you listen to me, John. You're probably the only person that's listened to me since I was a kid! People don't pay attention if they don't care. You care about me, John, and you look at me like you're thinking _what if_ , and—"

"You're fucking delusional, kid."

"And I've been wanting to kiss you, to… I've been wanting you for so long." 

John is gaping at him, and that sane part of his brain – the one that he ignored the night before – is yelling at him again, wondering how many repeated rejections he can take before he finally gives up and runs away with his tail between his legs. But one thing he learned from staring down the barrel of a gun is that he actually does have way bigger balls than he'd ever imagined.

But part of him is still shocked as hell when he leans forward and kisses John McClane.

The kiss is soft, brief. John doesn't exactly join in, but he doesn't back away either. He also doesn't rear back and punch him in the nose, which was one of the probable outcomes when Matt ran through the possible end results of this play in the nanosecond before he made the conscious decision to go for it. 

After a moment Matt leans back, studies John's face. Watches John blink once, slowly. He wants to touch John's face, wants to rub his thumb over his lips, wants to tuck his hands under the edge of John's T-shirt and smooth it slowly up to reveal that perfect chest. He wants so much, but he settles back a little instead, licks his lips. 

"If you really don't want this," he says, "all you have to do is tell me to stop. Just tell me that what you said last night still counts even when we're both stone cold sober. Just tell me to go and I'll—"

At some point John's hands had migrated to his hips, and now John squeezes him tight. 

"Don't move, jerkwad," John says.


End file.
